


Bruised Ghosts

by oxymoronassoc



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say there's such a thing as fate, but he doesn't believe in it any more than he believes in luck. Saying that, it can't always be a coincidence.  (Five times James Bond meets Vesper Lynd [and one time he doesn't].)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised Ghosts

_So the story rolls_  
And the golden boys  
And girls get tired  
You look for light  
On the blurry nights  
When home is hardly a word 

 

**I.**

James Bond is a normal man with a normal job. He went to a good public school as a boy. He went to one of the Oxbridge schools for university. Graduated with a double first--modern history and economics. He's tall, blond, has blue eyes, a sort of handsomely craggy face. He surrounds himself in an aura of mystery because, while friendly, he doesn't talk much about himself. There's an air of barely suppressed violence he carries around him. People like him, and people avoid him. He's well-known to like to drink and to go through girlfriends like other people go through clean socks. He's ruthless and he's good at his job.

He is a banker with the United Kingdom Treasury. 

No recruitment ever comes from the government. He's no double-oh. His knowledge of secret agents comes from films and popular television, fantastic and slightly misogynistic novels of the immediate post-war era. He has no interest in government intrigue except insofar as it effects his job at the bank. He makes a pile of money. He has a soulless modern apartment down near Canary Wharf. He is a successful workaholic. He is everything you'd expect.

They meet at work. She's sharp and quick to put him in his place, even though he's technically her senior though in a different division. He's instantly attracted. The sharp bite of her wit just makes him want to pursue her further. He invites her to dinner. She refuses. He invites her again.

After the twelfth invite, she agrees. He has the lamb. Skewered. 

 

**II.**

He's in the airport bar, having a vodka martini before he jets off to some godforsaken country on M's whims when he sees her. She has a mass of dark hair trapped at the base of her neck in some sort of elaborate knot. Her skin is milk smooth and milk pale. Her lips are painted crimson and he can see her laughing, tipping her chin slightly as she makes a witty reply to an airline representative at the desk. And then she turns and walks towards him, into the bar without him even having to drop a glass to get her attention. 

She steps up to the bar right next to where he sits and coolly makes her order. He can tell she's a tough customer. She'll require more than a wink and a crook of the finger. He tosses his drink back and signals the bartender for another. "And one for the lady," he adds.

"No, thank you," she demurs, flicking him a glance before turning her eyes back to her drink. 

"I insist," he says in his most charming accent.

"I suppose you think you're charming," she replies blandly even as she accepts the drink from the bartender with a wan smile. 

"I know I am," he laughs. 

"I have a boyfriend," she says abruptly, the fingers of her right hand going to fondle the necklace at her throat.

"Goodness, I wasn't aware we were going to be that serious," he says. He's on his third martini. "Tell you what, if you ever break up with him, here is my number." He pauses for a moment, debating what number to give her, before scrawling it onto one of the business cards in the crisp silver case he keeps in his suit pocket for appearances sake. He passes it to her, and she takes it.

"James Bond. Universal Exports?" She stares thoughtfully at him before replacing the card in her own jacket pocket. "Sounds terribly interesting."

"You have no idea," he replies. His flight is called then on the overhead speakers. He tosses back his drink and smiles at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling, and leaves the bar.

She removes the business card, lips pressed together, as her eyes trace the letters and the logo in the corner. 

A few weeks later, she calls him. It's time to forget the past.

 

**III.**

She's wearing the red wrap dress.

She's wearing the necklace. 

"You're still wearing that," he says quietly, conversationally one morning in Venice.

"Yes," she says softly, her fingers tangling in the silver chains that threaten to strangle her. 

"There's something you're not telling me," he says.

She glances at him over her shoulder, where he lounges, naked, among the rumpled white sheets, his body muscled and tan and so recently recovered. 

"I--" she begins, swallowing hard.

"Yes?" he says in that low, intensely quiet way. 

She closes her eyes and a tear slides down her cheek, leaving a grey smear of mascara. "I haven't been honest with you," she whispers desperately, her hands clenched into fists.

"About what?" he says and then her phone beeps. It's her death knell. 

"About everything," she says, turning to face him. She's staring at the floor but raises her eyes to his, blue defiant. "That will be a message. A message from the group that tried to kill you. I'm to give them your winnings. In return..." her voice hitches on a sob, but she firms her chin, sucking in a rattling breath. "In return they will spare him. My...my boyfriend. Ex boyfriend," she amends. "They're blackmailing me," she says, desperation creeping into her tone as he continues to watch her silently, those killer eyes calculating. 

He nods brusquely, rising from the mattress to cross the few steps to where she stands. He pulls her in close to his bare body and she presses her face to his chest. "I'll call M," he says quietly. 

"I'm sorry," she says, over and over again, like it can fix something that was broken to start.

 

**IV.**

She sees the man in the harbor. She knows the signs. She knows what she has to do now, soon.

She's wearing the red wrap dress. He's behind her, arms wrapped around her waist.

"You've taken off the necklace," he says.

"Yes," she says. "It was time."

"Time enough to forget someone." 

She pauses then, twisting in his embrace her mouth poised to kiss the corner of his mouth, to deflect his attentions. "Time enough to know that sometimes you can forget the past." The text message beeps then, and she jerks her gaze away, going for the phone, her face a mask of quiet desperation. Not now. Not this moment.

She picks up the phone and it says what she expected. Her mouth opens to lie. She lies so well. She's been lying this whole time.

She hasn't been lying at all. 

"It's the bank," she says, but her voice catches and he looks at her like he's looking through her. 

"What is it?" he says.

"I can't--" she begins, but he's already crossed the room, taking the phone from her hand. 

"I see," he says, his voice suddenly cold. He's dialing London before she can do more than cover her mouth with her hand. 

 

**V.**

Once upon a time there was a card game played by some of the world's cruellest villains and master cardsharps. Several agencies around the world sent their best and brightest to play in an attempt to bankrupt the stockbroker. 

The United States sent Felix Leiter, a master of the bluff but a mediocre card player. At the time, though, they'd had the money to burn.

The United Kingdom sent their own agent, a double-oh from MI-6. This man was not James Bond. This man never fell in love with his collaborator from the Treasury, Vesper Lynd. She was cold and aloof and professional and he was the same. 

The agent named James Bond, agent 007, continues in his work as an average double-oh. He's a wildcard, yet steady and reliable. He takes no extra risks. He's unremarkable.

Later, a Canadian agent betrays her country. The source of the leak is never found.

 

**VI.**

People say we live in a world of infinite possibilities, that there could be a world then, he assumes, where she lives. 

In some world, he doesn't go to Royale each summer in his Aston Martin, powering in low gears too fast through the winding French roads, to the place where it all began and it all ended, to play a hand of cards, to drink a little too much, to visit the small graveyard that contains a marker that bears her name. 

There is, allegedly, some universe where she doesn't have to betray him. Some universe where she isn't clever enough to deceive him. To think she could get away with it. To pretend to love him. To love him. Where he doesn't love her. Where he's never met her. Where he doesn't carry her presence around like a ghost. Where...well, where anything was possible, really.

But he doesn't believe in that any more than he believes in fate. 

Or luck. 

You make your own luck.


End file.
